Golden Fleece

He waited for his mother to say, “Me, too,” but of course she didn’t. She hadn’t seen Benjamin in over a year. For her, not seeing him today was no different from not seeing him any other day. I’ll never let that happen to me, Aaron thought.

I could never love somebody one day and turn my back on her the next. When I get married, it will be forever.

“Mother, I’m going to try out to become an Argonaut.” For two centuries, the Argonauts had been the Toronto team in the Canadian Football League. Although Aaron followed the game, he had never expressed an interest in playing. But his mother knew what he meant. The whole world knew about the new Argonauts, the crew for the massive starship being built in orbit high over Kenya.

“That mission will last a long time,” she said. And left unsaid: And I’ll be dead when you return.

“I know,” he said. And left unsaid: I’m already dealing with the loss of my father. Can the loss of the rest of my family be so much worse?

They sat in silence for many minutes. “I went through Dad’s papers,” Aaron said at last. A pause. “Why didn’t you tell me I was adopted?”

His mother’s face grew pale. “We didn’t want you to know that.”

“Why not?”

“Adoption … adoption is so unusual these days. Birth control is so easy. Unwanted children are rare. We didn’t want you to feel bad.”

“Are Hannah and Joel adopted, too?”

“Oh, no. You can see it in their faces. Joel takes after his father—he’s got his eyes. And Hannah looks just like my sister.”

“So you weren’t infertile.”

“What? No. There aren’t many things that can prevent a person from having a child these days. Not much that they can’t correct with drugs or microsurgery, after all. No, there were no problems there.”

“Then why did you adopt?”

“It’s not easy to get a permit for a third child, you know. We were lucky. Here in northern Ontario, population laws are less strict, so—so we had no trouble getting permission, but—”

“But what?”

She sighed. “Your father never made a lot of money, dear. He was a manual laborer. Not many of them left. And I shared a job with another person. Not uncommon for one parent to do that, especially these last few years, since they outlawed day care. But, well, we didn’t have a lot. Take LAR, for instance. He’s one of the cheapest household gods you can buy, and he still was more than we could really afford. Feeding another mouth was going to be difficult.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you adopted me.”

“The Government Family Allowance. You get double benefits for an adopted child.”

“What?”

“Well, there’s so little incurable infertility. It’s hard to find parents willing to adopt.”

“You adopted me instead of having a child of your own because it was cheaper?”

“Yes, but—I mean, we grew to love you as our own, dear. You always were such a good little boy.”

Aaron got up, made his way to the dumbwaiter, lifted a cold cup of coffee to his lips. Frowning, he put it back and asked LAR to zap it in the microwave.

“Who were my birth parents?”

“A man and woman in Toronto.”

“Have you met them?”

“I met the woman once, just after you were born. A sweet young thing. I—I’ve forgotten her name.”

A lie, thought Aaron. Mom’s voice always catches just a tad when she’s lying.

“I’d like to know her name.”

“I can’t help you with that. Wasn’t it on the adoption certificate?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, dear. You know how these things are. They’re kept confidential.”

“But maybe she wants to see me.”

“Maybe she does. There is a way to find out, I think.” Aaron sat up straight. “Oh?”

“Whatever ministry is responsible, I forget what it’s called—”

“Community and Social Services.”

“That’s it. They operate a—a registry service, I guess you’d call it.”

“Which means?”

“Well, it’s simple, really. If an adopted child and a birth parent both happen to register, saying they want to find each other, then the ministry will arrange the meeting. Perhaps your birth mother registered with the ministry.”

“Great. I’ll try that. But what if she hasn’t?”

“Then I’m afraid the ministry will refuse to set up the meeting.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, it’s a place to start anyway.” He looked at his mother, her simple brown eyes. “But I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me I was adopted. Maybe not when I was a kid, okay. But once I became an adult, why not?”

His mother looked out the window, out at the trees devoid of leaves, ready for the coming of winter. “I’m sorry, dear. We thought it was for the best. We just didn’t see how knowing would make you any happier.”